Nous Sommes Au Fond De L’étang
by Smoltenica
Summary: A 'Les Choristes' fic. Sometime in between his tours as the greatest conductor alive, Pierre Morhange remembers his past life, and thinks of an old prefect who helped him to become who he is. Companion piece to 'Penser à Moi'


_A/N: In the movie, when Morhange has to ask what Mathieu's name was, it cuts me to the bone that he should forget the man who helped to make him who he was. Here's my take on Morhange's memories of Fond De L'étang. This is set somewhere before the start of the film, with Morhange touring the world and conducting in many concerts. _

_Bear in mind that this is an unbeta-d fic. I wrote it on the spur of the moment while listening to my 'Les Choristes' soundtrack and sighing over Jean-Baptiste Maunier's voice. (And Jean-Baptiste Maunier in general…) Well, enough of that. Onto the story._

**Nous Sommes Au Fond De L'étang**

Pierre Morhange lies back in the chair, exhausted. It has been a long month of tours and concerts.

Around him are photos, newspaper clippings, and letters from his mother in France. He should be proud, he remembers, he is hailed as one of the greatest conductors of all time.

_I started out at Fond De L'étang. _

One of the great conductors, come from a school for delinquents. One of the great conductors, come from the bottom of the pond. He almost laughs at the thought.

But everything has changed.

It is many years since he has seen the school. After the fire, things went wrong- and then everything was right, he was studying at Lyon, his mother- he remembered feeling furious at the time- with a man.

He furrows his brow for a moment.

Who was the first man he had hated for his mother's sake?

It wasn't the engineer at Lyon; there had been another man before him. He remembers ink, spattered down from the window, he remembers-

_Fond De L'etang. _

That's right, it was the prefect.

The prefect. He had been an odd one, but Morhange had liked him in the end. What was his name?

The prefect.

Mat- oh, what was it? Mathian? Mathieu? That was it, Mathieu.

Mathieu started it all. Mathieu started the choir when he, Morhange, was in lock-up. He still remembers walking in, seeing the notes on the board. No one had taught him the notes, but he had known them, instinctively known them, and it was so easy to sing.

Mathieu started it all. He was the one who defied the principal- what was his name, the bastard? Rachin, yes, it had been Rachin.

_Action, reaction! _

He remembers the hideous cry. He remembers lock-up.

_I told your mother you were at the dentist's. Don't give me in. _

Looking up, he was staring into his mother's smiling, hopeful face. He remembers the prefect- Mathieu- brushing past and striding up to his dormitory.

He had known Mathieu was covering him not for Morhange, but for his mother. He still feels his blood boil at the thought. Who was this stranger, who thought he could steal Morhange's mother? His mother was all he really had, and this stranger- who cared if he taught Morhange to sing? He was taking her!

_What solo? Your voice is good, but all voices are indispensable. _

The knife was twisting even deeper. He closes his eyes, feels his hand fall limp on the sofa. It still hurts.

_What solo? _

His solo, his defining moment. It was his friend, the music. He could not live without it, and it had been taken from him.

What had he done to deserve that?

A beat.

_Mathieu's shock when the young boy- Pépinot, he thinks it was- when Pépinot said, "It is because Morhange threw the ink!" _

"_I'm ashamed of you, Pierre." _

_His mother. Her face only served to make him angrier. The prefect will not take his mother from him, he will not, he will not!_

"_It is just ink!" _

He winces.

He should not have done that. Then he would not have lost his solo.

But he got his solo in the end, didn't he?

_Oh nuit, oh laisse encore…_

Mathieu had forgiven him. It was Mathieu who had given him the song. It was Mathieu.

He remembers Lyon. The scholarship- it was for his singing, not for his conducting. He had never conducted before.

"Mathieu," he murmurs.

The name is rusty on his lips- he has not spoken it for so long.

Mathieu had left, just when everything was going right. When Mathieu had left, everything changed. He even took one of the students with him. The little one- Pépinot- he had disappeared that day. Everything had changed.

_The fire. _

Yes, that was it- Rachin had fired Mathieu, hadn't he? Then Rachin had been fired, and the school closed. The pond was drained. Fond De L'étang was over.

He remembers how he and the others had barricaded themselves in the room, watched Mathieu leave- the man who had changed their lives- how they had given him a farewell. He still remembers the way Mathieu's shoulders had drooped as he walked away, then, as the paper planes came flying down, there was light in his eyes, there was joy.

Slowly, Morhange sits up. But instead of preparing for the next concert in the evening, he walks to his desk, and picks up a sheet of fresh paper. Carefully, he makes one fold after another, just as Mathieu taught them, all those long years ago. Then he opens his window, and lets the paper aeroplane fly.

_Cerf-volant_

_Volant au vent_

_Ne t'arrête pas_

_Vers la mer_

_Haut dans les airs_

_Un enfant te voit_

_Et dans la tourmente_

_Tes ailes triomphantes_

_N'oublie pas de revenir_

_Vers moi_

_Revenir vers moi..._


End file.
